


What They Are

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Hatesex, M/M, post-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'd suggest you shut it and act like a properly reformed murderous bastard."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What They Are

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2007 hp_springsmut fest.

_One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is that things are what they are and will be what they will be. (Oscar Wilde)_

"This is utter bullshit, you know," Ron said, walking the short length of the Auror commander's office for the twenty-third time. He was certain of the number; he'd counted off each time he passed by Shacklebolt's pristine desk. No one should have a desk that clean.

No one.

"Will you please relax? You're driving me around the bloody twist already." Harry slouched, hips canted, legs sprawled in impossibly different directions, in one of the chairs Ron swore Shacklebolt had transfigured from porcupine skins. His foot tapped out a staccato rhythm against the side of the desk; his glasses hung off the tip of his nose. "We did what we had to do."

There were no pictures on the walls—standard Ministry beige, of course--and three weeks after his promotion Shacklebolt still hadn't unpacked the boxes that were stacked neatly in the corner. Clouds drifted lazily across the bay window, charmed to replicate however the outside sky looked. Bloody lucky bastard. It was the kind of office where you could forget you were two levels underground.

Not that Ron ever wanted one of those. _Ever._

He turned on his heel. Twenty paces across the room, twenty-three rounds…four hundred and sixty. He took a step. Four hundred and sixty-one. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes. "And now we're to get our arses chewed—"

The door swung open; Harry snapped upright, his red and black Auror's robe falling neatly into place as Shacklebolt entered, files in hand and a china teacup bobbing alongside his elbow, cheerfully clattering in its saucer.

"Potter," Shacklebolt said grimly, his mouth tight as he nodded at Harry, and Ron's heart sank. "Weasley."

Ron dropped into a chair with a sigh. "So exactly how narked with us are you?"

Shacklebolt dropped the files on his desk—Ron gritted his teeth; they even landed neatly—and the cup and saucer settled primly on one side of the blotter, steam curling up from the black tea. "Rather a bit." He sat in his chair and eyed them calmly. "Damages in the hundred thousands of Galleons to be paid to repair Diagon shops—"

"They can't remember how to cast Reparo?" Ron snapped, and at Shacklebolt's sharp glare, he sighed and slumped further in his chair. "Bloody hell."

Shacklebolt flipped open a file. "As I was saying. Financial reparations aside, the both of you sent three bystanders to St Mungo's—and that's _not_ including the witch whose labour your actions appears to have induced a month early—and exploded that bloody statue of Ethelred the Ever-ready—about which the head of the Wizarding Arts Council has already come to annoy me twice and do believe me," Shacklebolt leaned forward, his eyes narrowing dangerously, "when I say that the last witch on earth whose knickers I'd care to be untwisting is Miranda Catchlove." His fingers drummed against the file folder. "And let's not forget the two Firebolts you _stole_ from Quality Quidditch."

Harry coughed. "We were going to return them—" He pushed his glasses up his nose.

"They're in damned splinters!" Shacklebolt roared.

Ron flinched and shifted in his chair. He swore the bloody thing _pinched_ him. "But we brought Zabini in. After two years."

There was a long silence. Ron could hear the soft huff of Harry's breath, the rattle and hum of the Auror Department outside, the whistle of interoffice memos and the clang of Floos, the squeak of Augustina Whipperwark's tea cart as she wheeled it through the maze of cubicles, hawking her muffins and biscuits.

"Yes," Shacklebolt said finally, "you did. Which is why I'm not sacking the both of you."

Ron felt Harry tense next to him. "Right," he said warily. Shacklebolt had _that_ smile on his face again. Not a good sign.

Shacklebolt's smirk widened. "Potter will be spending the next six weeks at the beck and call of the Ministry public relations office. Might as well put that notoriety to proper use for the department. The Minister was rather delighted when I spoke to him this morning. Wants to plan some sort of—" his teeth flashed, sharp and bright "--affair."

"Shit." Harry looked ill. "Can't you just sack me instead?"

"As for you, Weasley," Shacklebolt continued, "you'll be pleased to hear that the Wizengamot's releasing a new batch of parolees from Azkaban tonight. As of tomorrow morning, for the next six weeks, they're your responsibility. Do attempt to keep them on the straight and narrow long enough for the Minister to stop making a twat of himself in the Prophet regarding overcrowding." He looked back down at his paperwork. "Dismissed."

Ron frowned. That was nowhere near painful as Shacklebolt usually preferred. Which meant…

"What's the catch?" he asked suspiciously.

Shacklebolt tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. "I've no idea what you mean. Now get out of my office."

"Last time you were naffed off, Harry and I spent two weeks following Dung's every move, which was definitely one of the most disgusting fortnights of my life." Ron crossed his arms. "You're hiding something, and I'd like to know what it is."

Shacklebolt reached for his teacup. "Potter, explain to Weasley what get the bloody fuck out means."

"Right." Harry nearly pulled Ron's shoulder out of joint when he jerked him out of his chair. "Come on, Ron."

"It's too bloody easy," Ron hissed when Harry shut the door behind them. "He's something horrible planned. You know he has."

Harry shrugged and scratched the end of his nose before pushing his glasses up. Again. "Probably." He sighed. "At least you don't have to lunch with Scrimgeour." He shoved his fists in his pockets, his shoulder slumping. "I'll swap with you."

Ron considered it. Lunch with the Minister didn't sound all _that_ bad. "There's always Polyjuice," he mused. He sidestepped Augustina's cart as she squawked at him in surprise. Bloody old bat needed new glasses.

_"He'd—"_ Harry jerked his head back towards Shacklebolt's door "—find out about it somehow. You know he would."

"Yeah."

They both sighed glumly.

"Buy you a pint?" Ron said after a moment, and Harry nodded.

"You damned well better. It was your fault we missed Zabini the first time."

"Sod you, you wanker." Ron bumped Harry's shoulder with his own. "You're the one who smashed the Firebolts."

Harry rolled his eyes.

And sod Zabini, Ron thought, following Harry out to the lift. Stupid prat should have just let them take him in the warehouse on the docks, rather than make a mad dash through Knockturn and Diagon. But that was a Death Eater for you, now wasn't it?

Overdramatic wankers, all.

Christ, he hated them.

"I'm going to get so bloody pissed," he mumbled, batting away an interoffice memo that fluttered around his head.

Harry nodded, slouching against the lift walls with a groan, and the doors shut on them.

***

The sun was too bloody bright.

Draco rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, wincing at the sharp burn of light. This morning they'd given him a battered valise containing a few sets of cheap clothes obviously pulled from the dregs of Madam Malkin's charity bin and two pairs of ill-fitting boots--and the robe they'd replaced years ago with a prisoner's grey cotton trousers and smock. It had been perfectly tailored back then, smooth across his shoulders, the tucks and darts lying precise and neat over his chest. Now it hung loose around his thin frame, the thick folds of charcoal wool barely hiding the too sharp bones of his wrists and his shoulders.

The dock they'd Apparated him to was crowded, noisy, and the crush of people and sound and _things_ almost made him want to turn back to the safe silence of Azkaban, black towers still visible across the ocean mist, until a guard pushed him, sending him stumbling forward.

Draco caught himself on a pile of wooden boxes, foodstuffs waiting to be Apparated over to the Azkaban kitchens. If that's what the filthy halls could be called.

And then Pansy was there, steadying his elbow. "You _idiot,"_ she snapped at the guard and the imbecilic brute only laughed.

"I'd get the little shit out of here, if I were you," the guard said with a smirk that sent a shiver down Draco's spine. "McLaggen thinks he's a pretty mouth, but Malfoy knows that already, now don't he?"

"Fuck you," Draco spat out through dry, cracked lips, his voice rough and broken from five years of disuse. He broke off into a rattling cough.

Pansy slid his arm through his, not even commenting on his thinness, and he thought perhaps he loved her for that. "Let's get you home," she said grimly.

Home was a dark, tiny flat on the outskirts of Clerkenwell, third storey of a small brick townhouse, and the windows were shadowed by tree branches, filtering late afternoon light across the dusty Aubusson in green-gold blotches. The handful of rooms were filled with the remnants of Cranesbill House, overstuffed sofas and chairs that Draco had sprawled across as a child, bits and pieces of china and silver that he recognised as Mrs. Parkinson's cherished wedding service.

"There's not much left," Pansy said quietly, and she set Draco's nearly empty valise on the bed in his room.

Like himself, she had lost everything. Home. Parents. Wealth.

Draco touched the coverlet. It was his own, from his bed at the Manor, and he looked at her questioningly.

"It's all I could afford when they auctioned the Manor." Pansy sent a set of shirts flying across the room and into the squat corner wardrobe. The wood doors were scuffed and scarred and looked as if they'd been reattached by clumsy hands. Pansy always had been pants at repair charms. "I knew you'd want it someday."

"Yes." Draco sat on the edge of the mattress, running his hand across the down coverlet. The embroidered silk caught on his callused fingertips. "Thank you," he murmured.

She didn't say anything, just sat next to him with a sigh. She was the same Pansy, even down to her smooth black bob, but her face was sharper, thinner, and there was a new wariness in her eyes as she slipped an arm around him and pulled him closer.

Draco forced himself to relax against her shoulder. He wasn't keen on being touched, but this _was_ Pansy. His Pansy. She'd always been so fiercely protective of him, even when they were children.

They would have been married by now, if things had been different. It was what their parents had planned for them since their births. But there was the war, and the deaths, and then there had been Severus—who had protected him in such a different way--

He closed his eyes, twisted his fingers in the coverlet.

_That_ still hurt. Even after all these years. He still had nightmares, could still see the burst of green light that had exploded over Severus's chest, could still hear his own screams as he'd tried to make it to his side, only to be held back by Dolohov and Greyback.

Sometimes he thought part of him had died that night as well. He was certain the Dark Lord had known.

It was a greater punishment to leave him alive.

When the Aurors had come, only a few days later, he'd not bothered fighting, not bothered to tell them what he and Severus had been planning. What His Lordship had discovered. All he'd wanted was Azkaban.

There hadn't been anything else.

Not even Pansy.

Her hand stroked over his hair, gently. It was the first time he'd been touched like that in years. Since Severus's fingers had brushed his cheek just before they'd been called before His Lordship. He'd kissed those stained fingertips—if he'd only known what was going to happen he'd have--

Draco pulled away. "I should sleep," he said, knowing he wouldn't, but he needed to be alone right now. It was too much. He wanted the quiet darkness of his cell again. The solitude.

"You should." Pansy stood up, and she looked back at him, her hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment, and her voice was brusque in that way she had when she was trying not to let on that she cared. "About the professor. I never said, before--"

"It's fine." Draco wouldn't look at her. Couldn't. He wrapped his arms tight around himself. He could feel his ribs against his elbows. "It was a long time ago."

She was silent.

"Just go," he said, but his voice was mild. He couldn't be angry with her, whether or not he wanted to. "Please."

Draco waited until the door snicked shut behind her before he threw his valise across the room, sending trousers and boots skittering across the worn wooden floor.

He curled himself next to the bed, his face buried against his knees.

This was impossible.

Utterly.

He wanted to go back.

***

At least Shacklebolt had tossed him in an office, although Ron suspected that was more Tonks' doing as she'd just started dating Charlie a few months ago and was still worried about what the rest of the family thought of her. Not that she needed to. Mum was already naming their future children. But if her worry meant a few perks at work for him, he wasn't about to ease her mind. He might not be as swotty as Hermione, but he wasn't an _idiot._

The office was tiny—barely bigger than the broom closet down the corridor—and the only light came from a horridly placed charm that had an annoying tendency to flicker on and off at least once an hour.

But it _was_ an office, not a cubicle, and Ron was relieved. If he had to deal with Azkaban scum, he'd rather not have to suffer through Zacharias Smith taking the mickey out of him in the process.

Ron had just taken a sip of tea—hot and black and strong, just the way he preferred—when his door was pushed open without warning.

He nearly dropped his mug.

Malfoy had always been thin and pointed, but his pale skin was stretched tight across sharp bones now. His hair hung loose, falling into his face, and his robe was worn and years out of style, even Ron could see that.

But his eyes were still cold and grey and his mouth curled into a sneer that made Ron grip the edge of his desk and grit his teeth. Fucking _prat._

"And here I thought you'd climb at least to the edges of the Ministry dregs, Weasley," Malfoy drawled, and his voice was rougher than it once had been. "Potter's coattails not long enough?"

"What, Azkaban spat you out already? Merlin, Malfoy, even the Dementors lasted longer than you." Ron felt a sharp twinge of triumph at Malfoy's flinch. "Sit down, shut it and give me your papers."

Malfoy tossed the packet of folded parchment on the desk and dropped into the chair across from him. Ron could see the sharp jut of his wristbones.

Percy had been thin when he came out of Azkaban too. Not that thin—he'd only been in for two years—but still.

Ron looked away.

"You're required to hold a job," he snapped, flipping through Malfoy's papers. "Assigned by the Ministry and for the period of one year, during which you _will_ report to the MLE every two weeks. At the end of a year, the MLE decides if you've been a good enough boy to get your wand back. Understood?"

"I'm not an idiot." Malfoy crossed his ankle over his knee and studied his fingernails. "As I recall, I earned far more OWLs than you even hoped to be capable of."

"Really not a good idea to get me narked, Ferretface." Ron smiled tightly and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. "Where are you living?"

Malfoy sighed and shifted in his chair. "Clerkenwell," he muttered. "With Pansy Parkinson, so don't even attempt to assign me one of your idiot minders—"

"It's not as if anyone'd care to rent out a bedsit to you anyway, what with that Dark Mark of yours--" Ron broke off, studying Malfoy's record. He raised an eyebrow at the list of code violations during his incarceration "Christ, Malfoy, how many times did you get thrown into solitary for whoring yourself out?"

It took of moment of utter silence before Ron looked up. Malfoy's face had paled even more and his jaw was clenching. Shit. He wasn't going to cry---

"Piss off, Weasel," Malfoy hissed, and he was almost at the door before Ron could blink.

Right. So that would be a no on that.

Ron flicked his wand at the door, slamming it shut. "Sit down."

Malfoy turned a burning, bitter glare on him. Ron sighed.

"I said, sit down," he snapped, and another flick of his wand sent the chair skittering over to Malfoy, knocking hard against the back of his knees.

Malfoy sat.

They stared at each other, tense and angry.

"I don't like this any more than you," Ron said finally. "But it's my job right now and you've no choice, so I'd suggest you shut it and act like a properly reformed murderous bastard or I'll be first to let you go right back to lifting your arse for all your old friends."

Malfoy's mouth thinned. "Just give me a job," he said tightly, "and let me out of this bloody hole before I'm tempted to give in to my urge to smash your face in, Weasley."

"Whatever you say, Malfoy." Ron scrawled a name and address on a sheet of parchment and pushed it across the desk. It was the worst of the employment assignments—at least he thought so—and if Malfoy would hate it, so much the better. Served the fucking prick right. "Hope you don't mind getting your hands dirty."

Malfoy didn't bother to look at it, just pocketed the parchment and stood. "We're done."

"Until…" Ron checked his calendar. "The 19th."

Malfoy slammed the door shut behind him, sending the lights flickering.

Ron stared down at Malfoy's paperwork. Fucking Shacklebolt.

Christ.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

This was _not_ going to go well.

***

Draco never wanted to see another dragon heart again.

Ever.

He set his knife down, his fingers drenched with blood and preserving fluid. The stench of raw flesh hung in the air, stifling each breath he took with suffocating memories of potions classes and Severus, watching him with those dark eyes.

His hands shook as he wiped them on a worn rag and refused to think of the promises Severus had whispered against his skin in the darkness of night. He didn't want to remember those lies.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Draco wondered if Weasley was aware of the mindfuck he'd conscribed Draco to, working in the bowels of this hellish apothecary. He snorted. Most likely not as that would suggest a modicum of intelligence and a far too Slytherin sense of retribution.

Know your enemy's weaknesses, Father had always said, and whether or not Weasley had intended to, he'd slammed straight into Draco's.

He couldn't escape Severus here.

The steps creaked above him, and Draco scooped the thin strips of dragon hearts into a heavy pottery bowl, swearing as the slick flesh slid through his fingers. After his years in Azkaban, he'd grown accustomed to not using his magic, to the disquieting thrum beneath his skin that ached for the curve of his wand against his palm. Still, it was strange in this place, among his memories of Severus and of school, to be forced into manual work, into slicing and dicing and skewering and grinding, all by hand.

He hated it.

"You'd best be finished." Barnstock came barreling around the corner, fat little Timothy at his heels, and Draco flinched. Jigger's favoured apprentice was an idiot who had been two years behind him in school and who had despised Severus, as he informed Draco rather frequently, smugly denigrating him as nothing more than a common, half-blood murderer.

Draco had held his tongue the first time. The second insult had been too much, and Draco had thrown a jar of runespoor eggs at the idiot and earned himself a black eye and split lip in retaliation, not to mention a tense lecture later from Jigger, threatening to send him back to Azkaban.

Draco'd only laughed and told him to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Jigger had knocked him across the room and into a solid walnut cabinet, causing more damage to Draco than to the potions inside that still held their wartime charms so as not to shift even if the building were to crumble around them, and Pansy had just sighed and given him _that_ look as she set Draco's broken wrist later.

"It's a different world now," she'd said quietly, tying off the bandage.

He supposed she was right.

Barnstock smirked at him and reached for Draco's abandoned knife, running his thumb along the bolster. "Enjoying yourself down here in the dark, Malfoy? Feeling the proper little house-elf, are we?"

Draco pushed the bowl of dragon hearts at him, ignoring Timothy's high-pitched giggle. Stupid twats, both of them. "Better than a great pillock with shit for brains. Tell me, Barnsie, has old Jigger got over your confusing beautification potions with befuddling draughts yet?"

Timothy hissed sharply. "Not bright, Malfoy," he muttered, his narrow eyes darting towards Barnstock.

Barnstock's grip tightened on the knife; the tip bit into the damp wood of the tabletop. "Bit easier him overlooking that than your record, now isn't it? Killing Muggles and Aurors—" He grabbed Draco, jerking him up to him, his arm pressed tight against Draco's throat. "Your lot left my brother without legs," he spat out, and Draco clawed at his skin, desperate for breath.

"Let him go, Geordie," Timothy said nervously, reaching for the bowl of dragon hearts. "If Jigger comes down—he's wanting this--"

There was a tense silence and Draco felt Barnstock's breath hot on his cheek, his arm heavy against his throat, watched his fingers curl tighter around the knife's shaft.

Any moment, he knew, he'd feel its bite—he'd been through this before and he _wouldn't_ let them sense his fear. He wouldn't.

And then the knife clattered against the tabletop. "Right."

A shove from Barnstock sent Draco stumbling back against the worktable; the sharp corner caught his hipbone hard, and Draco bit his lip at the stab of pain.

"Fucking Death Eater." Barnstock looked back at him from the steps. "They ought to have put the entire lot of you down."

Draco flipped two fingers at him, gripping the tabletop tightly with his other hand until the door slammed shut behind them.

His throat ached; his hip throbbed.

He reached for the knife with shaking hands. It was heavy and smooth in his grasp, and he knew how easy it would be to slide it through his flesh, pierce his heart. No one would know. No one would care.

Except Pansy.

Draco hesitated for a moment, the flat of the knife pressed against his sternum.

_Don't bloody well give them the satisfaction, you idiot,_ he could almost hear her say, could see the angry purse of her mouth, the wrinkle between her eyebrows.

He breathed out slowly, lowered the knife, reached for the jar of hippogryff spleens.

She'd lost too much already.

The knife sliced cleanly through the grey-green organ, spilling thick black blood over his fingers.

Draco closed his eyes, blinking back a hot burn.

***

Ron poured another Firewhisky—his fifth, he thought, or maybe it was his sixth, but who bloody cared anyway?

The flat was quiet. Empty again, the way it'd been more and more often the past few months. Not that he could blame Harry, or that he would, even if he wanted to, which he didn't. Not really.

Ron sighed and sprawled across the armchair in the sitting room. Harry's favourite chair. He propped his booted foot on the cushion and took a long swig of whisky. It wasn't as if Harry was around to tell him to get his arse up, now was it?

Hermione'd been the one to tell Ron he was bent. They'd been dating for two years, and the sex had been good, but not great, and she'd finally pulled him aside with a sigh, and informed him that she was breaking up with him because he couldn't seem to stop looking at Harry's arse. Or any bloke's for that matter, and had he ever considered why that might be?

Ron had just stared at her blankly, the bottom dropping out of his world as he realised that she was right. Maybe. And what that might mean. Maybe.

It'd taken six months for him to admit it, and another three before he'd found himself in bed with someone--a one-night stand that had landed him in the vicious centre of Rita Skeeter's Prophet gossip column two days later, but that's all it had taken for him to realise that Hermione was _definitely_ right about what sort of sex his cock preferred, at least.

Harry'd been the one to suggest Muggle bars, far out of the notice of the wizarding world and Skeeter's acid quill, and they'd found themselves in the habit of going out on the weekends--much to Hermione's annoyance--one night to a straight club where Harry would inevitably go home with some Muggle girl with brilliant tits, and one night to a gay pub where Harry would leave him once Ron ended up pressed against the wall, some man's hand down the front of his trousers, wanking him roughly while he bit at Ron's lip.

Ron never remembered their names the next day.

It'd been three years of brilliant sex.

Until last year when Harry'd finally woken up and realised that perhaps he'd rather shag Hermione after all.

_That'd_ been weird at first, his best mate in bed with his ex-girl, and there'd been a few months when they'd not all been certain what to say, what to do.

Harry'd decked him once, when he'd said something--without thinking--about Hermione in bed, and Ron supposed he'd deserved it, though he hadn't spoken to Harry for three weeks afterwards.

Now it was just Ron puttering around the flat most nights, listening to Quidditch on the wireless while he heated up a bowl of tinned soup, and he'd run into Harry in the office in the morning and tease him a bit about not being at home and Harry'd just give him that small smile that would make Ron feel just a touch ill, though he'd not think of why because really it wouldn't do, now would it?

Ron drained his glass.

Maybe he should just find a good fuck for a night.

He reached for the bottle again.

Then again, it was a fuck of a lot easier just to stay here and get pissed.

Again.

He lifted the bottle to his mouth with a sigh.

***

Ron was in the middle of a shouting match with Malfoy when Harry walked into his office.

He wasn't entirely certain what had started it—Malfoy'd been fifteen minutes late and Ron'd snapped at him and from there it'd gone downhill into a flurry of slagging off each other in every way they could think of. As usual. The sodding fuck just rubbed him the wrong way, he supposed. He always had, with that sneer of his and that hair hanging in his bloody eyes and his fucking condescension. No one was as good as Malfoy.

Load of fucking shit, that.

Malfoy was glaring at him, his hands on Ron's desk, and he was breathing hard, mouth tight.

"Fuck you, Weasley," he snapped, and his mouth was wet and pink, his teeth sharp.

Ron had a sudden urge to shove him against—he shook his head, horrified at that thought. Fucking hell. He really needed a shag if he was even contemplating—

"You'd like that, would you?" he heard himself say—Merlin, he could have stopped himself, should have—and then Harry coughed from the doorway, and both Ron and Malfoy looked at him, heads snapping about.

"Everything all right?" Harry asked mildly, shuffling the papers in his hands.

Malfoy stepped back, and he pulled his faded robe tighter around him. He was still too thin, even after two weeks, but his skin was losing that pale grey pallor that'd made him look like a walking corpse. "Everything's fine," he said, with a sideways glance at Ron. "I've work to go to. I assume we'll resume this farce in a fortnight?"

"Don't be late again," Ron bit out, and Malfoy's face darkened dangerously, but he just curled his lip and snatched his paperwork from Ron's desk.

"Saw you in the Prophet yesterday," Malfoy said, pushing past Harry. "Nice photo. Does that Mudblood of yours know that you're slutting about with Scrimgeour on the sly?"

"Piss off, Malfoy." Harry shifted, knocking Malfoy into the doorjamb. "Or I'll start speculating about what you and Parkinson are up to in that flat of hers."

Malfoy bared his teeth—Ron cut his thought off before it even formed--and the door slammed behind him.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"He likes dramatic exits." Ron sat down with a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. Even five minutes with Malfoy was exhausting.

"Right. Hasn't he always?" Harry dropped into the chair across from Ron and propped his feet up on Ron's desk. "What was going on here?"

Ron shrugged. "He was late. I didn't like it."

"Yeah." Harry studied him for a moment—the kind of look that always made Ron squirm a bit. Harry knew him too well, could see past his bluster most of the time, and while there were times Ron was glad of that because it meant he didn't have to say some things and he really wasn't that chatty of a bloke when it mattered, this wasn't one of those times.

"That Prophet photo was good," he offered instead, hoping to distract Harry.

It didn't work.

"Do you want to shag him?" Harry asked bluntly and Ron nearly dropped his quill.

"Fuck, Harry," he burst out, and then darted a glance at the closed door. "Are you off your nut?"

"Just wondering." Harry ran his thumb over his bottom lip and Ron looked away. He hated it when Harry did that. Mostly because he liked it too damn much. "There was a…" Harry paused, thinking. "A vibe."

"A vibe." Ron shook his head. "Mate, you've lost it."

"A definite vibe." Harry's feet thudded to the floor; he leaned forward, elbows on Ron's desk. "So are you going to, well, you know?"

Ron stared at him. "I'm not having this conversation."

Harry smirked.

"I'm not." Ron knocked Harry's elbows off the desk. "So sod off."

Harry tossed his papers onto Ron's desk and stood. "Just dropping those off anyway."

Ron looked up. "You coming home tonight?" He hated asking; he already knew the answer. "I thought we might get a pint or two down the pub if you were up for it."

"Hermione's making dinner," Harry said, hand on the doorknob. He hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip. "I told her I'd—"

"No worries." Ron twisted his quill between his fingers. "Just thought I'd ask."

Harry nodded. "Right. Tomorrow night maybe."

The door closed behind him.

"Yeah," Ron murmured. "Maybe."

The quill snapped in his fingers, and flecks of black ink scattered across his desk.

Ron swore.

***

They'd buried Severus in a pauper's grave on the outskirts of a Lancashire parish churchyard with not even a proper wizarding ceremony, Pansy had told him. The Death Eaters had merely dumped his body with the Muggles—let him spend eternity with his own kind, the half blood, Draco knew they'd said, though Pansy looked away when he'd spat that out bitterly.

She'd helped him find the grave; it'd taken an afternoon among the records, along with a few spells bordering on the Dark side.

Draco had known when they found him, despite the unmarked grave.

He sat near it now, knees pulled close to his chest, leaning against the oak that spread its branches wide over the patchy grass and crumbling gravestones. The sky threatened rain, grey and rumbling, and Draco could hear the muffled clank and rattle of Muggle traffic two streets down.

They'd ordered a stone for Severus, a simple one, with just his name and dates, and Draco was dreading its installation already.

Somehow it seemed so final.

"I hate you, you know," he said, and he knew he sounded petulant and entirely ridiculous, and it was the sort of thing that would have caused Severus merely to have rolled his eyes and to have pulled him back onto the bed and convinced him to admit otherwise.

Merlin, he still missed him.

Draco buried his face against his knees; the wool of his trousers was scratchy-soft against his cheek.

He wondered if it'd ever get easier. The numbness that had eased him through Azkaban was beginning to wear off, and even his skin felt raw and new and painful. He didn't fit this new world, might never fit it and he wasn't certain he wanted to.

"I've not a choice, though, do I?" Draco whispered, and he ran his hand lightly over the sparse grass. He could almost hear Severus's snort, could almost feel those arms wrapped around him again.

He couldn't keep doing this.

When the rain broke at last, it was warm and wet against his face and Draco was glad for the rivulets running down his face.

He never had cared for tears, after all.

***

It was more of the same, this. Even after a year it wasn't any different. The same music, the same blokes, the same fucking beer.

Ron took another swig from his pint. The beer was warm and heavy and bitter, sliding through the thick head. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with a grimace.

He hated these clubs. He supposed he could go to the Cock and Pye in Knockturn and avoid the Muggles and their stupid flashing lights and loud music, but he wasn't daft enough to take the chance of being splashed across the front page of the Prophet again. Hermione would _kill_ him, and Harry'd end up telling a few shits at the office to fuck their arses with their broomsticks--which would land him in Kingsley's office. Again.

And he didn't even want to think what Mum and Dad would say. They never liked being reminded that he wasn't bloody likely to pop out four kids like Bill had already, and he was rather sure Mum still hadn't forgiven him for ballsing up with Hermione.

He sighed and set his glass aside, pushing away from the bar. He was here for a reason after all. Might as well get on with it.

It only took a few minutes before he found a willing bloke and then they were in the alley, hands on zips, mouths hard and wet against each other.

Ron didn't know his name, didn't want to know his name and when the bloke's hand slipped into his jeans, pushing his pants aside to close around his cock, Ron groaned, his head dropping back against the filthy wall, hair catching on the crumbling brick, and he tightened his hands on wide shoulders.

_This_ was what he needed, Christ, a mouth and hands and a thin wiry body pressed against his, cock rocking into his hip, and when the bloke slid to his knees, pulling Ron's shirt open as he kissed down Ron's chest, bit at his belly, at his hip, Ron tangled his fingers in pale blond hair, stroked his thumb over a sharp, angled jaw, and groaned.

Nothing mattered but this, nothing in the world would ever be better than his hand on Ron's cock, his mouth--_fuck_ yeah--_Malfoy--_

"Shit," Ron whispered, and he gave in.

***

Draco knew better than to stay late at work.

He wasn't a fool, and he hadn't made it through Azkaban without learning a great deal about self-preservation.

But he'd been distracted all day, restless and jittery, and he'd worked slower than usual which was never advisable as Jigger would be furious with him if the ingredients for tomorrow's potions weren't ready, spread out on the apprentices workbenches before he left.

It would have helped if he had been able to sleep last night, he supposed. Instead he'd tossed and turned, all too aware of his own body in that way he despised, until he'd finally given in, his hand moving angrily over his cock.

He didn't have fantasies any longer. Hadn't for years, not since Severus had died. He didn't want them.

It wasn't as if he'd been celibate in Azkaban. Far from it, as Weasley liked to remind him every bloody time they met.

Draco slammed the knife into the manticore liver. Fuck the Weasel. He didn't know what it was like there, had no idea how little Draco's life had been worth to the guards or to his fellow prisoners. He'd been hated, despised as a traitor by both sides, and the only damned way he'd managed to stay alive was to let them all use him however they'd bloody wanted.

He hadn't cared.

Nothing had mattered with Severus gone, with his parents dead.

He'd seen Father murdered in front of him two months after his arrival in Azkaban. By Uncle Rodolphus at that, with a shank of wood he'd whittled into a sharp point.

His Lordship had ordered it, he found out later. Another way of breaking him, punishing him for his treachery, for Severus's corruption of his loyalty.

Draco slid the diced liver into a wide bowl, set with a preserving charm by Barnstock earlier, and he wiped the knife clean. He supposed it was odd, but he'd never regretted following Severus, despite all he'd lost.

He'd never do that to Severus.

Draco carried the bowl into the workroom and set it on Barnstock's table, wiping his hands on his apron.

He sensed them before he heard them, their whispers and sniggers, and he whirled around just as Barnstock's fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him back against the worktable, sending the bowl of manticore liver flying, shattering against the stone floor.

"Pity," Barnstock said, his face twisted in delight. "Jigger won't be happy about that waste, will he, Tims?"

Timothy caught Draco's arms, holding him tight. "Wouldn't think so, not at all. Bit of a skinflint, he is."

"Get your hands off me, you filth—" Draco struggled to pull away, but Timothy used a charm to jerk him back, and the bastard's fingers scraped down his arms painfully.

"We're going to have a bit of fun now," Barnstock said with a wide grin, drawing back his fist, and the wet crunch of bone shattering exploded through Draco's head.

The world went blissfully dark.

***

Every inch of Draco's body ached.

He didn't know how he'd made it home, only knew that he'd stumbled from the Floo and fallen onto the floor, unable to move, and he'd heard Pansy running from the kitchen, saying his name over and over again until he slid into darkness again.

He'd woken in his bed, one side of his face swollen, wide purple-black bruises stretching from his throat to his hip.

"Don't," Pansy said as he struggled to sit up. The mattress dipped as she sat next to him and Draco winced. The pain was a steady throb, twisting through his skin with each beat of his heart, each shift of the bed.

Pansy held a glass to his lips, and he drank without being told, the liquid cold and stinging against his broken mouth.

He leaned back against the pillows. "Sorry."

"You're an idiot," she said softly, and she brushed his fringe back out of his eyes.

Draco smiled faintly. "I know."

She curled next to him, twisted her fingers through his. "You can't go back there. I won't let you."

"That's not entirely my choice." Draco pressed his face into his pillow. His ribs hurt; he vaguely remembered Barnstock kicking him, over and over and over again. He touched the bandage wrapped around him.

Pansy caught his hand. "Don't," she said again and she sighed. "You have to tell Weasley what happened. He's a prick, but he's not entirely stupid."

"Right." Draco plucked at the coverlet. "Because he'd be so distraught if they'd killed me."

"Draco." Pansy narrowed her eyes and she reminded him of his mother then in an incredibly disturbing way. "You're not going back. End of the discussion, and if that means you speak with Weasley, you will."

"Cow."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes. "Merlin, I hate you."

"I know," she said smugly and she kissed his cheek the way she used to so many years ago when they were in school. "I despise you too."

He leaned his head against her shoulder and he touched the Dark Mark, still black against his pale skin.

"They hate me, you know," he murmured, tracing his thumb over the snake's head. It rippled beneath his touch and he shivered, remembering the pain that tore through him each time His Lordship called. "All of them out there. They've no idea—"

Pansy placed her hand over his, her skin cool and soft. "They're idiots."

He didn't say anything for a moment. "Perhaps."

"Don't give them the satisfaction," she whispered, and her warm breath gusted across his temple. "What have those bastards lost compared to us?" Her voice was bitter, harsh.

Draco understood.

"Severus was going to stop His Lordship, you know," he said quietly, and it only hurt a bit. "He'd done research—we both had—he was even going to contact Potter…" He trailed off. "I let them send me to Azkaban without telling them about the spell. I could have ended it earlier. If I'd told."

Pansy stroked her thumb over his wrist. "They wouldn't have listened."

"Maybe your parents would still be alive." He looked up at her; her hair hung over her eyes, shadowing them.

She was silent and still, and Draco was just about to pull away when she looked at him, and she shook her head. "You can't drive yourself mad worrying about what-might-have-beens."

"I've nothing better to do with myself."

"Rubbish." Pansy brushed her knuckles over his cheek. "You can start by finding something to do with yourself now in this brave, new world of ours." Her mouth curled in a sardonic smile. "Or so the Minister wants us to believe it to be."

Draco wasn't certain what to say. "It's not my world," he said finally, and he turned his face, staring at the embers that glowed orange-black in the hearth.

He didn't think it ever would be again.

***

Malfoy looked like shit.

Ron pushed his chair back, nearly knocking his tea off his desk as he stood. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Fading bruises, purple-yellow against his pale skin, mottled Malfoy's cheek, curled over his throat, and his bottom lip was scabbed, swollen. He shrugged. "Perhaps it'll come as a shock to you, Weasel, that there are people who don't care that much for Death Eaters."

Ron was next to him then, and Malfoy flinched away as Ron stared at him. The bruises had been healed, but not by a Healer, that was obvious. And there'd not been a report from St Mungo's, and they were always required to send over records for parolees. "Who did this?"

Malfoy hesitated for a moment, then lifted his chin and shrugged. "My esteemed colleagues of course. Not overly keen on me, it seems."

Ron's jaw tightened; a sharp twist of anger unfurled in his gut. He clenched his fists. "Right." His mouth thinned. "You're not going back there."

"Don't tell me what I'll do," Malfoy snapped immediately, and he looked away. He breathed out, a sharp huff that echoed in the silence of the office. "But no. I'm not going back."

Ron nodded and he relaxed slightly, though he still wanted to—Christ, he didn't know exactly what he wanted though he was fairly certain it involved knocking whomever did this into the wall, and that was something he'd never thought he'd do for _Malfoy_ of all people, but Merlin, there were just lines that weren't crossed, even if Malfoy probably pushed them into it because that's the way he was. Fucking sod.

Still.

Those bruises.

He knew there had to be more, and the ones he could see were pretty bad, and then there was the way Malfoy was standing, tense and careful, and the way he wouldn't look at Ron.

Ron wanted him to look at him.

"I'm not going back to anything," Malfoy was saying then, in a measured, dull voice. "So—"

"Why'd they do it?" Ron asked because he had to know, needed to hear that Malfoy was at fault like he always was, had to push away that urge to touch Malfoy's cheek. "What did you do?"

And then Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Go to hell," he bit out, and he pushed past Ron.

Ron caught his wrist. "You had to do something, Malfoy. You always do."

"Fuck you." Malfoy shoved at him, sending him staggering back, but he still had hold of Malfoy's arm, and he pulled Malfoy up against him, his breath catching.

They held still for a moment, and Ron could feel Malfoy against him, lean and long and thin…

This was dangerous, Ron knew, and he should push him away. He should.

"Fuck you," Malfoy said again, quieter this time, and Ron shivered, staring at his mouth.

He'd lost his bloody mind.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asked roughly, rocking into Malfoy's hips.

Malfoy drew in a sharp breath. "You wish, you fucking tit."

Ron's fingers tightened on Malfoy's wrist. This was mad, but he couldn't stop himself, couldn't think of anything but Malfoy's mouth and his hips and--_fuck._ "Right, since you didn't take it up the arse for every prick in Azkaban."

Malfoy's mouth was soft and warm and wet and Ron gasped, sucking Malfoy's tongue, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip.

His head snapped back as Malfoy's fist connected with his jaw. "Shit."

"I'm not your whore." Malfoy tried to pull away.

Ron grabbed him. Christ, he was an idiot; he should just let him go; that'd be the intelligent thing to do. "Tell me what happened."

Malfoy was silent.

"I'll find out, you know." Ron touched the bruise on Malfoy's cheek, his thumb sweeping lightly across the splotch of yellowing purple. Malfoy knocked his hand away.

"I told you," he said tightly. "Some people don't like Death Eaters."

"And some people don't like _you._" Ron couldn't stop himself from dragging his mouth across Malfoy's bruise, sucking lightly. "What the fuck did the bastards do to you?" he murmured against his skin.

Malfoy jerked away. "I don't want your pity, Weasley."

"I'm pretty damn certain that's not what this is." Ron looked at him then, and Malfoy froze, his shoulders hunching, his breath coming in sharp, short huffs. Ron let his gaze drift down to Malfoy's mouth. "Definitely not what I'm thinking."

"Shut it." Malfoy shoved him against the wall, his eyes sharp and bright and Ron groaned when Malfoy jerked his trousers open, not even giving a damn about the ache in his teeth. "This is what you're wanting?" Malfoy shoved his hand in Ron's pants, pulling his cock free, rucking up the maroon jumper Mum'd given him for Christmas last. "The whore on his knees?"

Ron gasped, the image of Malfoy's head bent over his cock flooding his mind. "Fuck," he murmured, and Malfoy was sliding down already, his hand stroking over Ron's cock, and when his mouth closed over the head, Ron twisted his hands in Malfoy's hair with a whispered _shit_.

Malfoy sucked cock better than anyone he'd had, or at least anyone he'd had recently, or maybe it was just that Ron was desperate for this, desperate to see his cock slide wetly into Malfoy's mouth, desperate to watch Malfoy's tongue curl around the head, slipping ever so carefully under his foreskin.

This was such a bad idea, Ron thought, and then he didn't care because Malfoy's hands were on his hips and his mouth was sucking his balls. Ron couldn't stop himself; he rubbed his cock against Malfoy's cheek, his fingers tightening in his hair as Malfoy looked up at him, eyes narrow and cold.

"You're so fucking easy, Weasley," he said, pulling back, and Ron stared at him for a moment before jerking Malfoy to his feet.

"Right." Ron pushed Malfoy against the wall this time, and he pressed his hips against his. He could feel Malfoy's cock, hot and hard through his robe. "And you're not?"

He cut Malfoy's protest off with a kiss, rough and angry and his hands were already pulling at Malfoy's robe, pushing it off his shoulders and reaching for his trousers.

Malfoy's hands gripped his shoulders and he tilted his head back to let Ron trail his mouth down his throat, over his collarbone, and Ron kissed a bruise, licking lightly over the mottled skin.

"Fuck them," he mouthed against the bruise, and he pushed Malfoy's trousers down, sliding his hands over his arse.

Malfoy's skin was soft, and his breath was hot on Ron's ear. "God, I hate you," he groaned, and his cock rubbed against Ron's, hot and heavy.

"Shut up," Ron said, and he rocked forward, their cocks slipping together. He curled his hand around them both, stroking slowly, and Malfoy bit his lip, leaning into Ron's touch.

"Just get this over with," Malfoy choked out, and Ron smoothed his palm over the wet heads of their cocks, stroking down roughly before pulling his hand away.

Malfoy groaned, and Ron grabbed his hips, pulling at his legs, lifting him up. "Wrap your legs around me," he said tightly, and for once in his damn life, Malfoy didn't hesitate or object or try to tell him what a bloody fool he was or insult his family tree.

And then they were kissing again, biting and sucking and their hips were rocking into each other, their breaths coming with sharp gasps and pants and Ron was so bloody close, and Malfoy's hands were pulling at his shoulders, his arms.

"Fuck," Malfoy whispered into his ear, and he squirmed against Ron, pressing his cock harder into his. "You'd better—Weasley—God—don't you dare stop—" He broke off with a groan.

Ron's fingers dug into Malfoy's hips, and the feel of his cock sliding wetly, hotly over Malfoy's was fucking incredible, unbelievable, and he wanted—Christ, he fucking wanted—

"Malfoy, shit—" Ron couldn't stop himself; it was too much, and he bit Malfoy's throat, pressed him into the wall, and he was coming in hot, sticky spurts over Malfoy's cock, over his shirt and trousers.

Ron groaned; Malfoy's mouth was on his and Malfoy was whispering something that Ron couldn't make out. "Come on," Ron murmured, licking across Malfoy's bottom lip. "Come on, Malfoy, come on."

"Oh, God." Malfoy tensed against him, arching into Ron's hips. "Fuck—"

Ron held him until he stopped shaking.

They leaned against the wall, breathing hard, and then Malfoy pushed at him, let his legs fall.

"Get off me," he said, and Ron stepped back.

Malfoy didn't look at him as he pulled his clothes back together, silently.

Ron fastened his jeans; his hands shook just a bit, but he didn't think Malfoy noticed.

"Whore enough for you?" Malfoy asked, bitterly, and Ron flushed.

"You're not a—" He broke off at Malfoy's angry glare. "You're not."

Malfoy shrugged. "Sod off." He slid into his robe, buttoning the frog clasps. "You needn't worry I'll admit to this madness."

"Right." Ron shoved his hands in his pockets. "Are you all right?"

A laugh, bitter and harsh. "Like you give a damn."

"That's not fair."

Malfoy raised his eyebrow, curled his lip in that way that Ron despised. "I wasn't aware that we were being _fair_."

"Fuck you," Ron said, but he wasn't certain he meant it. His eyes drifted back down to the bruises on Malfoy's throat. "I'll find a new position for you."

Malfoy flushed. "Don't bother. I won't go."

"You'll be sent back—" Ron started and Malfoy shook his head.

"I won't do it." He opened the door. "And leave me be, Weasley. I'm not your fucking project. This?" He gestured between them. "This was nothing, so don't attempt to get ridiculously Gryffindor on me."

Ron said nothing, just wrapped his arms around his chest, leaned against the desk. He looked away.

"Right," Malfoy said quietly.

The door closed behind him.

"Right," Ron said, and the word echoed softly in the silence of his office.


End file.
